Poetry Archives

As in the midst of battle there is room
 For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth;
 As gossips whisper of a trinket’s worth
Spied by the death-bed’s flickering candle-gloom;
As in the crevices of Cæsar’s tomb
 The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth:
 So in this great disaster of our birth
We can be happy, and forget our doom.

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy
 Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth,
And evening gently woos us to employ
 Our grief in idle catches.  Such is youth;
Till from that summer’s trance we wake, to find
Despair before us, vanity behind.